


only you beneath the moon (and under the sun)

by soul_is_lonely



Series: everything but the girl [1]
Category: BLACKPINK (Band)
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Love, No Plot/Plotless, POV Second Person, Purple Prose, Romance, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:54:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_is_lonely/pseuds/soul_is_lonely
Summary: You meet Jennie at a rooftop bar and she's really rather beautiful.
Relationships: Jennie Kim/Reader, Jennie Kim/You
Series: everything but the girl [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192541
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. She Is

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Jennie character study. It's mainly plotless, and mainly aims to explore Jennie as a character. This is how I imagine conversations with her might go. This is also part of a series, where I plan on making character studies for each of the members. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Title inspired by the song 'Night and Day' by Everything But The Girl.

Jennie Kim. She’s smiling at you. It’s on the shy side but you can’t figure out what exactly a woman like her would have to be shy about. It’s probably this exact humility that acts as a kind of catalyst, is probably a key cause of why wherever Jennie Kim goes, she leaves a trail of unintentionally broken hearts behind her. But one look into her eyes, and you know a heart break at the hands of her is not something you’d ever be entirely opposed to. 

She tells you that it’s a pleasure to meet you. “I’m a big fan of your work,” she says as you shake her hand.

All you can think is: _wow_. Jennie Kim is a fan of your work and she is looking at you and shaking your hand and smiling, still. She’s wearing a black dress with spaghetti straps and matching red bottom heels that go with the matte rouge on her lips and the smoky shadow dusted onto her eyelids. There is not a single inch of imperfection on her, and it leaves you breathless.

You’re not entirely sure how it happens but you end up at sitting at a table with her, far away from the other occupants on the balcony who are drifting idly while smoking or cradling lonely glasses of wine.

She’s straight out of a movie, you think, watching her order a pink gin and lemonade. You imagine her in pearls, glittering under set lights in one of those 50’s Hollywood movies; on a runway, modelling out next season’s collection amidst clicking camera shutters; painted in a frame, draped in a white sheet, an indiscernible expression stroked onto her face by artist hands.

Right there in front of you – solid and breathing – yet entirely intangible, like a dreamy mirage in a desert or a sparkly hallucination induced by a street narcotic; so very easy to get lost in.

“I hate parties like this,” she says, crossing her legs, one over the other. “Too many people and not enough quiet spaces.”

“Is that something you search for?” You ask. “Quiet spaces?”

“All the time,” she smiles gently. It’s no longer shy. “There isn’t anything more precious.”

There’s champagne bubbling in your flute. It makes you sick but you drink it anyway in one swift gulp and suck your teeth at the aftertaste. You’ve seen her a million times before, at least, in magazines and on television screens. You tell her a joke, it’s a stupid one, and when she laughs, gums showing and eyes closed, you think that she’s different in person. Better in person. With texture and warmth. No picture could ever compare.

“I’m a fan of yours, too,” You admit after a moment, leaning your elbows onto the cold top of the wrought iron table.

She laughs a little. It’s airy and non-committal. Sweeping some of her hair behind her ear, she looks at you again, and it says that she already knows without her having to say it herself. It makes you feel like a useless teenager, gawky and inexperienced compared to the likes of her.

“You’re sweet,” she tells you. And you guess it’s probably all you’ll ever be to her.

After a moment you sit back in your chair – alcohol fizzing nicely in your veins – and just look at her as she speaks, her red lips moving and her chin resting in her palm. The city lights and stars are twinkling behind her, off in the distance, as if someone had put them there on purpose. And you think that’s something; a too-pretty girl bound to be tainted by an unkind world.


	2. Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jennie drops by your office.

She’s become your mind’s actress. You’ve been spending your time placing her before every imaginable backdrop. You can’t help but fathom how she looks so at home, so beautiful, in each and every single one. It must be some kind of phenomena, you think, biting down on the end of your pen.

You can see her in a London tube station, standing still and pretty among the throngs of commuters during rush hour. You cut and paste her in front of the Pyramids in Giza, trekking atop the yellow sands, shielding her eyes from the sun with her pale hands. Flower fields in Los Angeles, forests in Scotland, beaches in the Caribbean; perfect, perfect and perfect. She belongs in places that she’s never even set foot in.

Perfect, perfect and perfect. Jennie, Jennie and Jennie.

You close your notebook and beg yourself to think of something else.

* * *

Imperfect, imperfect and imperfect. Jennie, Jennie and Jennie.

Human.

It strikes you when she sits in your chair behind your desk. She runs her fingers along the edge of your closed laptop and she looks small in your chair, like a pearl still perched inside its oyster. You take the opportunity to just take in the sight of her. She touches your belongings as if they’re her own, as if she chose them herself.

“I like this desk,” she says, bracing her hands against it, as if to check the sturdiness. “Very vintage.”

You smile at this, leaning in the doorway with your hands in your pockets. She’d dropped by your office at your invitation and part of you is surprised that she actually came, surprised that she’d even consider wasting her time on you.

You come forward and sit opposite her, on the other side of your desk. She leans back into the dark leather of the swivel chair, tilting her head at you. “You’re staring.”

“I want to make a movie about you,” You confess. You’d been wanting to tell her since you first met, but hadn’t been quite sure how to.

Her eyebrows raise slightly before falling again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You swallow down the saliva in your mouth. There the city is again, right behind her, awash in late morning light, pale and bright as it sits against her skin. “Why?”

“I don’t think anyone would watch a movie about me.”

 _Wouldn’t they?_ Your brow crinkles. “Wouldn’t they?”

She shakes her head. It’s a small gesture but it tells you that she has things that you won’t ever be able to really understand, things that she won’t ever tell you. “I’m not very interesting.” After giving you a fleeting look, she pushes herself up from the chair and goes to look out of the window.

When you join her, she’s tapping idly at the glass with a manicured fingernail, concentrated fully on the angular skyline of tall city buildings and structures. Seoul stretches out before the two of you – further than your eyes could ever see.

“I won’t write it if you don’t want me to.” You say after a moment.

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then, I won’t write it.” You take a breath, squinting your eyes up at the sky. There’s not a single cloud in sight. It’s just blue, brilliant and smooth like taught silk strung up in the air above everything. “But if you ever change your mind…”

“I won’t,” she says lightly but surely, her face poised and unreadable. “I won’t change my mind. People already see enough of me,” she pauses for a moment, before meeting your eyes again. “I’ve seen enough of me, honestly.”

“Yeah?” You laugh a little. “Well, I’m sure there a lot of people who haven’t. Me included.”

“You and all those people…You don’t really know me.” Her voice is gentle, as though she thinks if she talks any louder the window might shatter and rain down on you in razor-sharp, glittery, shards. “You’ll get tired eventually.”

You turn and fold your arms, leaning back against the glass, feeling it press hot through your shirt. “Do you ever get tired?”

“All the time,” she answers without missing a beat. “Everybody does. I’m not the exception.”

Up this close you can see the faint smile lines around her mouth, the freckle below her brow, her wispy baby hairs sticking up, catching the light. There’s a small acne scar on the right side of her temple. You tell yourself to remember it in case no one else does. While everyone else may remember all the perfection she showed on stage and all the pretty pictures she took for magazines – at least you can remember her for this. For being a person and just a person. At least you’ll remember her under the moon and under the sun. Just like that.

“Nevertheless,” she says after a moment, crossing her arms against her chest, “I think you’d write the most beautiful movie about me. So beautiful that I might even cry.”

“I wouldn’t ever want to make you cry.”

She shrugs, exhaling lightly. “I know. But that wouldn’t stop me.”

A lot of people have probably already written things about her, for her, you think, regarding her side profile as she gazes out toward the horizon – but you were probably the only one who had ever asked for permission.


End file.
